They

They've been silently shadowing her for several blocks now.

Pandora presses her cold lips together. She won't scream.

They are behind her.

Right behind her.

If she were to extend her arms backward, her fingertips would graze Them.

Not this street, but the next one is mine. I’m almost there, almost home. Pandora fails at comforting herself while paranoid perspiration dots her forehead.

She begins walking faster.

So do They.

They are laughing at her. No, They are cackling, Their cries of taunting mirth engulfing the midnight, eating it whole, spitting out its bones.

Pandora tries to rein in her panic, reminding herself that They will always be mere inches behind her, hovering in the wake of her every move.

Pandora never should have left her house. That's what brought this one on.

As she had walked down the street to the party, she could smell Them—rotting meat and subtle hate—but she didn't turn back. It was always too late to turn around and run back, to change her mind, to scramble back out of the hole, getting dirt under her nails and leaves in her hair.

Nyx met her at the door and pressed a cold plastic cup into her hand. “Where the hell have you been? I was almost worried.” Her magpie eyes surveyed the room. Nyx's interest in Pandora was already cooling.

Pandora ignored the question, thirstily gulping her drink. For the last week she had hidden away in her room, trying not to let her twirling head settle on these circumstances. She didn't want to think about it. It was a montage in her mind, a film strip of sickness. But forever wouldn't let her hide there. The night drew her back into being like a clumsy artist; she was jagged pencil sketches, messy charcoal smudges and vicious swipes of oil paint. Pandora wanted a fat rubber eraser. Her drink would do for now.

“Seriously though, what is your deal? I mean, I've been hearing some scary stories about you, Pandora. You've gotta get it together, I'm worried about your head.” Nyx tapped her temple to illustrate, and then took a show-off swig of her drink, her black-penciled eyes never still, they twitched and flicked and glinted in the dim lights. It made Pandora weary to watch them.

The music was loud; Pandora was wrapped in a blanket of pounding bass as she sullenly sipped the dregs of her drink.

Nyx found someone to engage in a more stylish conversation and left Pandora’s side, exiting with lines about being careful and thinking twice.

Pandora always thought twice, and usually more. This, to her, seemed like part of the problem.

And then Craven arrived, sauntering through the clouds of smoke and too much cool like a velvet stage curtain. He threaded his way over to Pandora, scoping out the scene with hair hanging strategically in his eyes.

“Hey babe, what are you doing here? I thought you were a goner for sure, you shoulda heard people talking. How are you, anyway?” He touched her shoulder and she stiffened with revulsion; his touch was an open-sewer bath. She wanted to tiptoe away, to slip out from under his possessive hand, but Pandora could never summon that kind of aggression. Instead she opted for a diplomatic shrug, causing his hand to fall away. She tried to avoid his gaze but found herself looking anyway.

It all came roaring back like the stomach flue right before a bout of vomiting. She was afraid she might.

“I’m fine,” she managed, and crumpled her plastic cup.

She contemplated making an escape now; she could feign obligation, go distract herself with someone else. Nyx was her only companion though, her tongue currently licking the lips of a strange boy in the kitchen.

And Craven started it again, whispering, “I’m sorry, you know I am, so why are you givin’ me so much grief, huh? Let’s go somewhere quiet, let’s talk, okay? I know you still love me, it’s written all over your face, come on...”

Someone shoved Pandora in passing, Craven was pulling her arm, and it was happening again, a pressure on the top of her skull, making her brain feel swollen and her vision was blurring, it was swirling.

They were on Their way.

Pandora was frightened. She pulled her arm away, tried to walk, but the crowd swarmed around her like a forest possessed, and she was closed in.

The music thumped louder.

Her eyes sleepy, she leaned against the wall for protection, as if anything could protect her now. Pandora willed Nyx to come to her rescue.

“Please, baby, let’s just go somewhere by ourselves!” He was growing frustrated, aggressive, that blackness was back in his eyes, misting them over like crystal balls full of storm clouds. He yanked harder on her arm and Pandora fell to the floor, banging her ice pick elbow on the hardwood, wincing. People stared and then looked away, slightly embarrassed for her but not wanting to get involved.

Craven stared down at her. Master. Owner. Ruler. Pandora managed to get back on her feet without his help. Not that he was offering. No one was looking her way anymore. She tried to stumble to the kitchen, where Nyx was now having her inner thighs massaged by the boy.

Craven grabbed at her again, he was all hands, those angry hands. “Pandora, don’t be difficult, baby. Come with me, just for a second.” There was no way she could slink away like a black snake through the underbrush, she was as obvious as an elephant, blatant as a billboard.

The night was humid and heavy on their shoulders as they walked across the front yard to an old oak tree. Pandora leaned into it, willing its grandfather spirit to sneak her away into his leaves, large and wrinkled as hands. Craven, always on another plane, stumbled around her like a circling tiger, his pleas growing slurred and whiny.

“You gotta believe me, Pandora, she came onto me, and you know how we can get sometimes, everything gets outta control, you should know that better then anyone, man, we do dumb things.”

Dumb things.

As if that was an adequate sum up of what he had done. The past two years had belonged to him, he owned those memories, her heart had been his charge. It had all gone so far so fast, it had been bad, it had been the torn rags of first times and betrayals. He was off and running from the first time he met her, and while Pandora did all she could to match his pace, she wasn't supposed to be here, she had stumbled across something that should have never been opened. An ebony box full of creatures that could never be named, They had flown at her face and down inside her, settling there, spreading Their larvae and Their secrets.

And then she had managed to extricate herself from Craven, (but not Them, never Them) the murk and the mud, the quicksand pain, she had pulled herself out when she walked in on Craven and someone, a someone that wasn't Pandora, not even close.

Craven opened his mouth to speak again, but his intoxicated spiel tapered off as he turned his head and looked behind him.

Pandora smelled the noose of her perfume, choked, and knew that Craven’s conversation with her was now over.

Her name as Desdemona, and she was walking across the lawn, approaching the front door, her boots black, spiky and thigh-high. Her dress barely there. She threw Craven the bone of a haughty glance, her former conquest now passé.

Craven was clearly torn, kept tossing antsy looks back towards the front door where Desdemona was slipping inside, black smoke and sensual scarves.

Pandora was relying so hard on the tree for balance that she had almost slipped to the grass. And then Craven told her their talk was over, he needed to use the bathroom. Pandora wanted to laugh in his face, his illusions were so poorly executed, but what could she say anymore? She was nothing but a mime with a paint-peeling face, a mute with a flapping mouth, there were so many words but there was nothing to say.

But still she played along, more out of habit then anything. Besides, Pandora’s stomach was a mass of cocooning caterpillars and her legs kept buckling. That house was full of wild animals, jungle music, it thumped and throbbed, and Pandora stayed outside.

She waited. And waited. The house kept erupting with noise; shouts, laughter, Euro-trash techno came on and there were cheers, an occasional crash.

Pandora peeled herself away from the tree, holding out her pale hands to steady herself, and began making her way across the grass to the house.

Nyx hurried up to her as soon as Pandora stumbled across the door-frame.

“Where have you been? Did you know that Craven’s here? And Desdemona too! They both just disappeared together into a room upstairs!”

How subtle, Pandora thought to herself, while Nyx wrung her hands, playing at distress, but simultaneously in her element. She was drama's queen.

Pandora ignored Nyx. None of this was important.

They were coming for her.

In the meantime, however, Nyx dragged Pandora off to the kitchen with her. The girls indulged in a little of this, a bit of that, a little more of this, and people kept oozing into the house like a chemical spill, until Pandora could barely move without elbowing someone in the stomach. The air had turned to smoke and sweat, and if possible, the music was even louder.

Craven and Desdemona were still missing, and They were so close to arrival. Pandora sensed it as the music abused her eardrums and Nyx was shouting at the top of her lungs to be heard.

Everything was growing louder and louder, colors flashed, the walls bubbled and frothed like a poisonous, boiling brew, Pandora's eyes rolled back into her head, everyone was howling and whirling around like a technicolor twister, it was all about to erupt or implode, swirl away like a rushing flush.

Suddenly, the music, the shouting, the crashing, it all went mute, as if Pandora had been deafened.

They were here.

Amongst the broken bottles and billows of smoke, the haze and the eerie silence They came. Weaving Their way through the stony statues of people effortlessly, approaching Pandora as if she were the only one in the room.

And in a way, she was.

It was as if They could sense her turmoil, and thirstily They flocked to it, like sharks to blood. She was surrounded.

Pandora watches a car roar by, its inquisitive headlights blazing into her face, exposing her specter skin, tangled vines of hair and pinprick pupils. No light would ever pick out the figures behind her, malicious leers playing across Their mouths.

She peeks.

She can’t resist, has to see how many are here this time.

Last time They came in droves, and typically she had been over-powered. This time, there would probably be just as many of Them, if not more. It had happened then and it will happen now, under the observant sky and judgmental stars.

Pandora stands still on the deserted sidewalk, trying to remember what time she had left the party.

From behind her, she hears Them whispering among Themselves. Straining her ears, she tries to snatch up fragments of Their intent. How will tonight’s episode unravel?

“Punishment,” one hisses.

“Tonight she is ours!” Another voice crows gleefully.

“Curb your gluttony, imbeciles!” Pandora recognizes the abrasiveness of His voice, knows He is the leader. She has heard Him speak before, always demanding instructions or rasping abuse.

“We leave her alive,” He continues, “for that is much worse than simply finishing her, putting her out of her misery. Last time you assholes took it too far. Besides, if there’s nothing left of her we’ll be back where we started and then what will we do? So shape up! You know how this works!”

Pandora pieces together a threadbare scrap of a plan, as much as her mind will allow. She looks into the road.

Clear enough.

Hastily, while They are still conversing in hushed tones, Pandora begins to sprint across the street.

She runs, fast and terrified, dodging cars and just narrowly missing a battered white van, honking like a startled bird. When she reaches the sidewalk on the other side of the street she doubles up, awaiting the return of her breath.

“Let Them have been hit by the van, let Them have died!” She pleads with no one.

She turns to the road, eyes scanning. While it is spattered with indifferent en-route vehicles, it is vacant of the car-crushed corpses of Them.

Several curious drivers steal glances at the bedraggled girl, standing alone on the street in the night’s perishing hours.

His claw touches Pandora’s shoulder before she can take her first steps. His voice drips with icy condescension.

“Don’t do that again, Pandora.”

Pandora is surprised that He hasn’t decimated her immediately for her stunt. She peers hastily over her shoulder before remembering not to and does a quick about-face.

“Keep walking Pandora,” He commands, and she can feel the spread of His smug smile, like a spill of something thick and sticky.

Pandora understands that things are on Their terms and They will decide when to do it. Like a cat mauling a mouse before devouring it, They toy with her. His mockery is insultingly obvious. He will bat her around, make her run only to snap her back up in his claws, make a game of her frightened anticipation.

Pandora hesitates, and then knows she shouldn’t have, two seconds too late.

“I said WALK, you insolent bitch! Are you deaf as well as incredibly dumb?” He has her by the throat, squeezing, choking her, shaking her, and then flings her to the ground like garbage, the skin on her palms shredding as she hits the sidewalk.

“Now get up and start walking!” He barks the order, and she does as she is told, brushing the grit and blood from her hands, walking on feet that seem miles beneath her. Her shoes make flapping noises on the sidewalk, which reverberate throughout the forsaken street.

She is walking, practically flanked now by her wrathful escorts.

Her porch light is visible now, moths with dusty wings dancing for death around the bare bulb.

I will make it home to avoid this, she shakily, doubtfully convinces herself. Mouth dry and sticky, sweat sliding hotly down her spine, her shirt sticking, and her throat throbbing, the skin sore. She tastes something metallic.

Her burning eyes dart around her street, the night sopping in black. She scans for a savior that never comes, she pleads with the pocked moon face, full and safe in his black bed. She wishes she could climb up there with him, snuggle into the velvet folds of the dark sky, safe from her own overwhelming, inescapable dangers.

They begin to advance upon her.

Her house is much closer now.

Pandora shudders, hearing Their cloven feet, Their many hissing breaths, They are quickening Their pace.

She should have never left the party.

Nyx approached Pandora, held out a cup out to her.

“Where are you going, Pandora? Here, have this drink, come back to the kitchen, there’s less people in there.”

Pandora shook her head, disoriented in the front hall. The walls and floor were like water, rippling and rushing around her face, the ceiling threatening to collapse, her world reaching yet another apocalypse.

They were waiting for her outside the door, beckoning for her to depart.

Nyx shook her head. “It’s late, it’s dark, your house is far. You shouldn’t walk home in the state you’re in, anyway.” Nyx took Pandora by the arm and tried to steer her toward the kitchen, but Pandora held onto the doorknob, resisting.

“Fuck off Nyx, it’s time I got going.” Pandora’s voice was soft but certain, and she pulled away, opened the front door.

Nyx crossed her arms across her chest, hurt, not understanding. “Haven’t you had enough?” She admonished. “When are you going to…stop? Fix this!” Her face had been pale to the point of translucency, and she was scared.

She was so scared.

“Enough is enough! I’m getting tired of walking. Let’s just do what we have to do, and get out of here!” One of Them growls.

Pandora wipes the sweat from her face. She isn’t going to wait around for her own demise, mere feet from her house. She can make it, and then she’ll be home free. Safe.

She runs.

Their shouts of surprise echo on the deserted street. She hears Them start up the chase. Her run becomes a streak of frenzied desperation, why can’t she go any faster?

Pandora’s feet fly over the sidewalk like manic birds, but it's as if she is running in place, air whipping through her fingers, everything moving slowly, murkily. They bellow threats from somewhere behind her.

They are catching up.

Pandora dashes on, eyes watering blindly, heart pumping itself painful, a white-hot knife of a cramp wedged between two ribs. Their claw-like hands make snatches at her streaming hair, at her shirt flapping in the breeze caused by her own fevered mad dash.

Spitting in His fury, His pursuit dwindles slightly as He struggles for His breath.

“Catch her, you incapable fuckers! Why aren’t you catching her?! She mustn’t escape, you mustn’t let her be free! Just grab her dammit, before she gets home!” He is huffing, practically dancing in His anger.

Pandora knows what will happen next, knows what is coming, this rancorous rerun. Her lungs burn dryly as she toils to win this harrowing race.

Just a few more feet, her driveway is right there. She rounds the slouching picket fence and wills her complaining legs to bring her to the front door, into her house, her only refuge from Them.

She makes it to the driveway, her running almost slows. It can’t slow. That thought is a panicked bat, flapping its ragged wings in her face, making her feet trip on the loose gravel, and she is on the cusp of falling.

It will be the end if she falls.

She hears a triumphant exclamation then, crunching footsteps. Sharp pains threading through her muscles. Pandora will be Their prisoner once more, enslaved by her own ignorance, her own careless regard for her soul...

Thick arms roughly grab her around her waist.

No-no-no-no-no...

Her eyes squeezed shut, her hands ball up into clammy fists, protesting, kicking her feet. She won’t submit this time, she won’t go quietly like countless others have, like she herself has before.

Blindly she reaches for her captor’s neck, but he is shaking her by the shoulders, making grabs at her flailing arms that are now pounding, hammering at his face. He is yelling, trying to push her away, but Pandora will not yield.

He is going to kill her if she doesn’t kill him first, she knows. Pandora must destroy this enemy, she will make sure that no one ever touches her again.

Pandora keeps punching, but she isn’t as strong as her assailant. She needs a weapon. Her eyes search the yard and land on the shovel propped against the fence.

It is near, and she reaches out an arm, snatches it up, faces him once more. The shovel's weight is solid and promising in her hands.

Crack! It crunches into her enemy’s face. Pandora can feel skin split beneath her blow.

Crack! He falls to the ground in her yard.

Crack! She feels teeth shatter.

Again she hits him over the head with her weapon, he wails, Pandora smashes him once again, feels scalp surrender, skull dent.

Crack! The shovel makes a solid sound over his cranium, and she hits him again, feels his head growing soft beneath the shovel as she hits him again and again.

He lays still now, still and silent. Finished.

Pandora wipes her palms against her thighs, sees blisters birthing on her skin from the shovel’s splintery handle. Winded and trembling, stranded in the surrealism of finally freeing herself, shivering with the shock of gore and guts. His head is black with clotting blood and clumps of something she guesses is skull and brain.

Pandora can't leave his corpse here to decompose, this is her destruction, her victory. She must clean up her mess. She grabs clumsily at his feet. He's heavier then she imagined he would be. Pandora begins the grueling task of dragging his mangled body to the woods behind her house. She will bury him there. Through bushes and underbrush she drags the battered corpse, until she grows faint with exhaustion. She runs back for the shovel and buries him deep in the woods, at the foot of a solemn tree, the only one to known this secret, to keep it quiet and hidden amongst the tangles of its roots and the mulch of fallen leaves.

The sun is pushing its inquisitive face out of the horizon by the time she treks out of the woods toward her house.

“Pandora? Pandora, holy shit, I’ve been calling your house all morning!” Nyx’s voice is shrill and obnoxious through the telephone receiver. Pandora holds the phone away from her ear, her head throbbing a hammer of a headache into her eyes.

“Where did you take off to?” Nyx is insistent. “I was so worried! You better not have been getting yourself into any trouble, and you know what I mean by that!”

Pandora yawns lazily and rolls over in bed, stretching, squinting in the glare of the sun. Her alarm clock tells her it is after noontime; her parents will be at work, the house mercifully emptied.

She examines her hands, wondering at the blisters, the grubby nails.

“Sorry, Nyx, it was one of those nights. I just needed to get out of there.”

“Are you serious? Nothing happened like last time, did it? Are you okay?”

Before Pandora can assure her friend that nothing happened, everything is fine, and she is in one piece, Nyx speaks again.

“You know, Craven went after you when you left the party last night. He claimed he was worried about you, and I guess he didn’t want you to be upset over the disappearing act he pulled with Desdemona. Of course, you had every right to be. But he never came back to the party, and none of his friends have heard from him since. You didn’t let him sleep over, did you? Because, quite frankly, that would be so stupid of you, considering all that he’s done...”

Pandora sighs in a bored sort of way, letting her friend’s idle chatter wash over her like a warm morning bath. Nyx can be such a nag sometimes.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Pandora replies nonchalantly. “I never did see him though. I came straight home and went to bed.”

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